


this phantom skin (it's weird to live in)

by clovenhooves



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Ancap and Ancom go on a bender, Ancap is bad at emotions, Ancom has a mild existential crisis, Angst, Bad coping mechanisms, Because they hate themselves, Blow Jobs, Crying During Sex, Discussions of Suicide, Dubious Consent, Gender Dysphoria, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Transphobia, Kinda, Non-binary character, Not Beta Read, Other, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Semi-Public Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Though it doesn't go far, Trans Character, and some sexual content, friendship ended with leftist unity now lib unity is my best friend, i mean they're in a park but no one's there and it doesn't really come up, sex under the influence, there's feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clovenhooves/pseuds/clovenhooves
Summary: Ancap stands up with a drawn-out sigh. He was quite familiar with why the other anarchist would be coming into his room like this. The only question was how much time this was going to take out of his week. Time was money, and money was something that could quite literally not afford to be wasted.“Commie again?” he asks, already knowing the answer.Ancom nods, quiet. They pull their knees up to their chest and wrap their arms around themself. They look so small from where Ancap stands. The capitalist sighs and reaches into his pocket, tapping out a quick text to Libertarian to make sure their business agreements would be taken care of while he was occupied before setting the phone down and reaching into the desk drawer. He removes a small baggie of white powder, waving it in the air above Ancom.“Need a hit?”-----Ancom and Ancap go on a bender. Things escalate.
Relationships: Ancom/Ancap, Lib Unity, libertarian unity - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	this phantom skin (it's weird to live in)

“For the last  _ fucking _ time, Tankie, I’m not going to let you just tell me what to do-” 

“Ancom, you are being ridiculous-”

_ “Ridiculous?  _ Yeah, real rich from the guy who threw out all my shit for the  _ third time _ this week. Do you know how annoying it is to dig through the garbage to find the shit I  _ trusted you _ to keep safe in your room for less than a day?” 

“I did not consent for you to stash your... _ drug paraphernalia  _ in my bedroom!” 

“Ha! Like your vodka bottles aren’t any better? If we were human you would’ve rotted out your liver by now. They’re all over your floor, it’s a fucking health hazard with all the glass and shit in there. And don’t act like I can’t smell the smoke on you. Why are cigarettes and alcohol okay for some reason? Because they’re the currency of ‘the party’?” 

“Ancom, I-” 

“Fuck you!” 

The door slams open, and out rushes a very pissed-off anarchist, their hood pulled low over their eyes as they stomp across the room. Commie follows them out closely, leaving the door hanging open behind them. Ancom spins around at the sound of Commie’s lumbering footsteps shaking the floorboards behind them. 

“Get the hell away from me!” 

Commie raises his hands up in a sort of “cease fire” gesture, face stoney and dismissive. “You are throwing a  _ tantrum, _ Ancom! This is hardly befitting of an ideology such as yourself.” 

Ancom rolls their eyes, jabbing a finger hard into Commie’s chest. 

“Like you really believe that. You’re just another authoritarian with a power fetish who thinks it’s fun to tell me what to do. Because you think I’m too stupid to see that.” 

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all, Anarkiddie. I think you’re jus-”

Ancom barks out a sarcastic laugh, turning their back to the statist. “Again with the  _ Anarkiddie.  _ You think I’m a stupid kid. We’re about the  _ same age  _ you know. I didn’t choose to look like... _ this _ .” They seem to shudder a bit on that last sentence; clearly they accidentally struck a nerve within themself that they were trying to repress. They quicken their pace, walking out of the room and down the hall as Commie follows before they disappear behind a corner and a door slams in the authoritarian’s face. 

Ancap jumps at the noise of his door opening and shutting abruptly behind him. Slowly, he spins around in his desk chair, glancing over his shoulder to see his leftist counterpart locking the door and securing the deadbolt before pressing their back against it, slowly sliding downwards until they reach the floor. 

Ancom looks up at Ancap, hoping that their hood disguises the tears brimming in their eyes. The room is dark, anyway; Ancap keeps it dim, with the windows perpetually shuttered and the only real light coming from his computer screen - a dazzling and headache-inducing display of charts and lines and perpetually fluctuating numbers, the whims of the free market being measured down to the millisecond. 

Ancap stands up with a drawn-out sigh. He was quite familiar with  _ why  _ the other anarchist would be coming into his room like this. The only question was how much time this was going to take out of his week. Time was money, and money was something that could quite literally not afford to be wasted. 

“Commie again?” he asks, already knowing the answer. 

Ancom nods, quiet. They pull their knees up to their chest and wrap their arms around themself. They look so small from where Ancap stands. The capitalist sighs and reaches into his pocket, tapping out a quick text to Libertarian to make sure their business agreements would be taken care of while he was occupied before setting the phone down and reaching into the desk drawer. He removes a small baggie of white powder, waving it in the air above Ancom. 

“Need a hit?”  


Neither of them are truly aware of how long it had been. Could be anywhere from a few hours to a few days into the high - it didn’t really make a difference. All that mattered was here, now, this feeling - this whole-body euphoria, the way Ancom’s legs seem to want to run in messy, zig-zagged lines forever through the park, following after the melodic sound of Ancap’s voice somewhere in front of them. Their vision is a blurry mess of colored streaks and waving lines. They make the mistake of looking down at the endless grass below, how the ground warped and stretched beneath them, how it was impossible to really focus on a single step if they really thought about it- oops. 

They come tumbling to the ground, the sky and earth rolling up and down and up and down before they come to a shaky, nauseated stop on their back - though the sky still very much seems to be moving, the stars above swirling and pulsating in a mesmerizing light show. Their whole body feels electrified, as though a live wire ran right under their skin to somewhere deep into their core. Everything was buzzing and breathing and so, so beautiful. 

“Ancaaaaaaap!” they call out, because they want their dear friend to see this. They want Ancap to lay down with them and look at the stars, look at the way they dance and twinkle in the air. Their heart is pounding; they have no idea what dosage they were on, barely aware of what  _ drugs _ they were even on at this point, because every time their mind cleared up enough to start thinking about it (and everything else, all of those awful churning feelings buried deep inside) Ancap was there, lovely friendly Ancap, with another bag of sparkling powder for them to snort, or another colorful pill to choke down. Somewhere in the back of their mind they’re vaguely aware of how much debt they’re going to be in to the other anarchist when this was all over. Ah, fuck it. They were already in more debt than could ever be paid off already - ten thousand, thirty thousand, fuck, maybe a million! But there was no way Ancap would stop this. He wouldn’t bother to get high with them if some part of him didn’t absolutely love it, right? 

Speaking of! Here he comes now, or at least they’re  _ pretty sure _ that the stumbling blur of yellow and purple at the edge of their vision is Ancap. The capitalist flops face-first onto the grass next to them before rolling over onto his side, sunglasses askew. 

Ancom looks over at him, sees the glimpse of heterochromatic eyes usually hidden behind those dark shades. They frown; why did their friend always insist on wearing those garish things? They reach a shaking hand forward to grab them, to pull them away from Ancap’s face entirely. Ancap tries to reach a hand up to stop them, but his hands are shaking too much, his body too sluggish to coordinate with his mind, and the smaller anarchist easily swipes them away. 

Ancom drops the sunglasses somewhere onto the grass and shakily props themself up on one arm, looking intently at Ancap. They’re wavering a bit, barely able to hold themself up - but god, since when did Ancap look so pretty? 

He’s glowing - literally glowing, an aura of yellows and purples swirling all around him, the same color at those striking eyes. When they really look into them it looks like Ancap’s more wasted than they are. His pupils are blown up to the size of saucers, and if Ancom looks really closely they can almost see the little outlines of dollar signs in the very center. 

Ancap seems to finally register the fact that Ancom’s been staring at him for what feels like hours (but in actuality was probably maybe a few minutes), their face coming closer and closer to his. He squints his eyes at them, confused. 

“Wh..What are you looking at?” 

Ancom mumbles something that vaguely sounds like “your eyes” but could really have been anything, Ancap’s muddled mind barely coherent enough to register words right now. His own hand tries again to reach up and grab at something - this time, Ancom’s bandana, the flash of red and black amidst the green of the leftist’s hoodie naturally drawing his attention. He’s like a child, reaching out and touching, grabbing, pulling at whatever seems interesting at the moment, and Ancom’s own free hand comes up to help him, their smaller palm resting against his as they both pull down their mask. Ancap takes a glimpse at Ancom’s parted lips for only a moment before Ancom closes the distance between them, locking their lips in a sloppy, intoxicated kiss. 

It feels good. Really good - their senses already dulled into a delightful buzz of elated bliss that sends lightning strikes of pleasure ricocheting through the anarchists. Ancap grabs a fistful of Ancom’s hoodie and yanks them closer, accidentally rolling backwards and bringing the smaller anarchist on top of him. Ancom doesn’t seem to mind, though, taking advantage of the new position to grind their hips down softly against Ancap’s. 

The thing about Ancap and Ancom is that they were, at their core,  _ anarchists -  _ they had little care for the rules or norms of society, and didn’t care what the state had to say about their personal lives. What mattered ultimately was what felt  _ good  _ and  _ right,  _ less so about the morality of it all. For Ancom this usually meant beating the shit out of conservatives and rarely staying sober, and for Ancap seeking the thrill of high-stakes investments and hiring the services of underage sex workers. And for the two of them in this very moment, what felt right was exactly this, their bodies grabbing loosely at each other, the world around them a meaningless swirl of noise and sensation as their lips moved noisily against each other’s. 

Finally Ancom comes up for air, letting out a soft moan at the sight of the string of saliva connecting them together as they part. Ancap’s hat has been knocked off somewhere along the line, and Ancom reaches a quivering hand down to run their fingers through the rightist’s hair. He could afford to keep his hair neat and perfect, so it really made them wonder why he hid it under that gaudy fedora all the time. Ancom had an excuse, at least - under the hoodie was a mop of greasy matted hair, definitely nothing they wanted the other anarchist seeing right now. Though they felt rather disconnected from their body in general at the moment, something in the back of their mind suddenly felt quite self-conscious. Fuck, they really hope the drugs aren’t wearing off again. 

They double-down on focusing on Ancap, desperate to keep their mind away from coherent thoughts. Their hands trace the sides of his angular face, feeling at the soft skin under their fingertips. Ancap hasn’t  _ really  _ worked a day in his life, that much was obvious. Even Ancom had their fair share of light scars and bruises along their hands, the roughness of their skin scraping up against the capitalist’s that in his drug-addled state felt strange, almost feathery. 

Ancap looks up at them before gripping their bandana in his hands again and pulling downwards, trying to bring them into another kiss. Ancom’s lips miss this time, landing somewhere around his jaw before inching down to plant sloppy kisses down his neck. Each one feels like a zap of explosive energy down the flush of his skin, prompting little moans from the rightist. 

“Fuck, Ancom…” Ancap mumbles, feeling the cloudy wave of pleasure travel from his head right down to the space between his legs. Ancom’s body moves slowly above him, hands wandering until they rest somewhere on his shoulders. Ancom is light, certainly light enough for Ancap to kick him halfway across the field they lay in if he really wants to - which he definitely doesn’t - but the point was that despite Ancom being on top of him they  _ really  _ didn’t feel in control right now. It really felt like they were out to please Ancap, and something about that was nice. It was hard to hold onto any thoughts right now, let alone try and act dominant in this state, so being able to lay back and let Ancom do whatever it is they wanted to do was certainly more than enjoyable. 

...Even if somewhere in the back of Ancap’s slowly sobering mind was guilty over the fact he was essentially taking advantage of Ancom like this. Neither of them were anything close to able to consent right now, sure, but he still had enough sense to say no. 

But then Ancom’s tongue runs up against the thin skin right above his pulse and all thoughts of stopping this vanish in a puff of smoke from Ancap’s brain, and he shakily pulls down the other anarchist’s hood and fists his fingers through their curly mess of hair. 

Ancom looks up at Ancap with half-lidded eyes, the green of their irises barely visible, pushed out to the edge by their dilated pupils. Out from their mouth tumble four slurred words that send a jolt of arousal straight into the pit of Ancap’s sinking stomach. 

“Can I touch you?” 

A tiny hint of protest tingles at the tip of Ancap’s tongue, only for it to die unceremoniously as he feels his cock twitch uncomfortably in his pants. He nods, face flushing, and leans back to try and unclasp his belt. His fingers are slow and seem to move at half the speed of his brain’s fervent wishes, and suddenly he feels very constricted in his clothes, suffocated almost. Ancom looks down at his efforts before learning forward, pressing his limbs to his sides as they lock lips with him again, this time letting their tongue slide past his lips and into his gaping mouth. Ancap shudders at that, body stiffening as he feels Ancom’s thin fingers undo his belt and make quick work of his button and zipper, hand reaching underneath his clothes to palm at his hardening cock. 

They share a moan, Ancap relenting and letting Ancom’s tongue probe around his mouth. He tastes something like the vague acidic sting of battery acid and the smoky-chemically flavor of an unholy concoction of old drugs - definitely not the most pleasant sensation in the world, but just the feeling of the capitalist’s tongue sliding against theirs sends a thrill running through Ancom, who curls their fingers around the base of the other’s dick and starts to pump. 

Sparks of light flash behind Ancap’s eyes as he chokes back a surprised moan. Fuck, he really can’t remember the last time he’s had sex this high before (though, to be fair, he can’t remember much of anything right now). He forgot how  _ intense  _ everything was, how even feather-light touches had him squirming in pleasure. 

Ancom comes off of Ancap’s lips with a wet  _ pop _ , shifting their body downwards to get a better angle before impulsively pulling Ancap’s pants and underwear down, freeing his cock. Ancom takes a moment to eye it, still moving their hand up and down the length of it, before opening their mouth and letting their tongue sneak out to run along the tip. 

Ancap covers his mouth with a clumsy palm to quiet the embarrassing moan that threatens to escape his body. “F-Fuck, Ancom, warn me if you’re gonna do that. Are we really going to…? Here? I’m pretty that’s a violation of the NA-” 

“-there’s no one around,” Ancom mutters, trying to maintain their unfocused eye contact with the right anarchist as they run their tongue up his cock base-to-tip. That shuts Ancap up real quick. Their breath comes out hot against the wetness they leave behind; Ancap’s legs shake in response. “I’m so fucking high right now, dude. Just...just let me suck you off.” 

Ancap gulps. “Well...I suppose you owe me for the drugs…” he slurs, before letting his hand rest on the back of Ancom’s head and gently push down, encouraging them to take more of his length. 

Ancom tries to take on more than they’re ready for, their throat suddenly gagging around too much of Ancap’s length, but Ancap is either too high to care or simply doesn’t even register, hands pulling at their hair as Ancom is shoved down even deeper. Ancap moans, hips rolling upward into the tight warmth of Ancom’s mouth. Ancom moans in turn, humming around the cock in their mouth, looking up at Ancap with tears welling up in their eyes as they tried to adjust to the intrusion. 

Ancap has the vague urge to ask Ancom if they’re okay, but glancing down at their big, glossed-over eyes, the little muffled moans escaping their mouth, he’s sure that they’ve got to be  _ mostly  _ okay with this. Oh, well - he’s too far gone to really care, and Ancom is  _ really  _ good at giving head, so he’s perfectly content with pressing Ancom deeper, watching the other anarchist deepthroat his cock. 

“A-Ancom...fuck. You’re too fucking good at thi-i-i-s,  _ ngh…”  _ Ancap stammers, voice slurred with a mixture of arousal and intoxication. He watches, transfixed, as Ancom takes him down to the base, maybe with a bit of drug-addled gagging, but otherwise managing his (admittedly rather modest) length just fine. Part of Ancap is glad that the drugs make it a little more difficult to get off, because he’s pretty certain that if he were sober he’d already be spilling into the other anarchist’s mouth by now. 

Absently, he pets the back of Ancom’s head, watching as their lips mouth the end of his cock before they come back up to gasp for air. Drool drips from their swollen lips as they look up at the rightist, hands coming up to rest on his thighs. 

And the  _ downside  _ of being high off his ass meant that Ancap had even less of a filter than usual. For whatever goddamn reason he decided to mumble out “Do you suck off Commie like this?” and the second he sees those tears spring up anew in Ancom’s eyes he realizes he’s fucked up. 

“Oh- shit, Ancom, I didn’t mean to…” Ancap grits his teeth, already knowing that this shit is gonna sour his high - oh, god damn it, he’s pretty sure they’re out of drugs, too, unless Ancom is holding out on him. 

He fully expects Ancom to get up (if they’re even able to) and walk away from him just like they walked away from Commie, but instead Ancap watches in shock as Ancom narrows their eyes and deepthroats him in one swift motion. 

_ “Fuck!”  _ Ancap cries out, feeling his cock brush up against the back of Ancom’s throat. Jesus, the leftist was fucking nuts. Maybe they all were - though he sincerely doubts Commie would be going down on him like this. Distantly in the back of his mind he wonders how Commie and Ancom fuck - I mean, everyone knows it, hell, everyone can  _ hear  _ it, but he wonders what it’s like to be fucked by someone like Commie. Someone so domineering sounds suffocating. He really doesn’t see the appeal of anarchists such as themselves getting off on such a loss of power. But, fuck, if the visual of Commie absolutely railing Ancom doesn’t get him off. Maybe he could sneak some security cameras in their rooms - there’s got to be a market out there for burly Slavic men rearranging the guts of anarkiddie twinks. 

Tears stream down Ancom’s face as they bob their head up and down on his cock. Ancap, again, feels kinda-sorta bad about this, but it seems like Ancom’s enjoying it enough, so it’s probably fine. This is totally, non-dubiously fine, he tells himself, tightening his grip on Ancom’s head so he can move them up and down. Using their face like a warm, drooling cocksleeve. 

Fuck. That was hot. Ancom’s face wet with a mixture of tears and spit, Ancap’s precum starting to drip from the tip of his cock and deep down the back of Ancom’s throat. Thinking about Ancom’s problems, their pitiful crying, the desperation with which they swallow him down, the way he can hear them gasping and moaning through the paper-thin walls at night as Commie fucks them. 

Ancom gulps hard around Ancap’s cock, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tightening within their own pants. Just the sensation of it is starting to make them sick - the only thing they need to focus on is this, this moment, the taste of Ancap and the way those grunts and sighs escape from the normally ingenuine rightist. As long as they can ignore everything happening below their belt, everything will be fine. 

Ancap can feel his peak approaching, head tilting back to look up at the swirling mass of stars above. The sky is  _ breathing _ , the inky blackness pulsing with each beat of his heart, threatening to swallow the two of them. The trees and grass and buildings around him are starting to blend together, the sensation of Ancom’s curly brown hair in his hand, the flash of green and those pretty circle-As shining in their eyes as they look up at him, and, fuck,  _ fuck, _ he’s coming, he’s-

_ “ _ Oh,  _ fuck!”  _

Ancom screws their eyes shut as they feel Ancap blow his load, trying their hardest to keep everything contained but feeling a few spurts of milky white cum dribble down their chin and onto their bandana against their wishes. They gulp it down, quiet, obedient, swallowing thickly until the capitalist is finished. Ancap slides slowly out of Ancom’s mouth, letting out breathy huffs of air before collapsing onto the welcoming embrace of the grass below. 

Ancom licks their lips, relishing Ancap’s taste on their tongue before crawling over to Ancap’s side, laying down on the grass next to him. They’re panting a little themself, jaw aching from the force of Ancap’s movements. 

“Jesus,” Ancap mumbles. “Now I get why Commie was so pissed off.” He grins, and Ancom feels their face flush an even deeper red than before. “I would be too if I were missing out on that.” 

Ancap looks at the space between Ancom’s legs, noticing the bulge that has developed there as they sucked him off. His hand reaches down, about to brush up against the button of the leftist’s pants, before Ancom rolls in the opposite direction, blocking him off. 

“Hey, I know I said you owed me, but I’m not  _ that _ heartless.” Ancap sits up shakily, vaguely wondering where his sunglasses went. Those were one of his nicer pairs, it would certainly suck to lose them in the park. “Here, I’ll help you out. It’s uh, what do you call it?  _ Mutual aid?”  _

Ancom curls up into themself, preventing Ancap from touching them. They shake their head, mumbling something too quiet for Ancap's distorted senses to understand.  


“Come on, Ancom. It’s on the house. Consider it a free trial.” Ancom can hear the grin in the rightist’s voice, but they don’t meet his gaze. Their eyes fixate on somewhere far away, somewhere past Ancap’s shoulder and beyond the line of trees behind them. 

Ancap, mistaking Ancom’s discomfort for shyness, scoots over towards the leftist and starts to slide a hand under their hoodie, feeling at the warm, soft skin underneath. Curiously, he feels his fingers brush up against a strange texture, something that broke up the smooth line of Ancom’s stomach- 

Ancom shrinks backwards, curling up into a tight ball before inching away and sitting up on their knees. They pull the end of their hoodie down past their legs, keeping their head low. Their hood falls low over their face. 

“Ancap, please. No.” Their voice is grave, suddenly sounding much more sobered-up than before. Ancap frowns. 

“Was it that bad?” He finds his hat somewhere to his right and puts it on, feeling awkward, like he’s done something wrong. Ah, he was used enough to that feeling, but usually he had an idea of what it was, what unspoken moral barrier he’d crossed. Ancom’s face is dark, unreadable. It makes something in his stomach lurch uncomfortably. 

When he sees the tears start falling again from the leftist’s face, he’s jolted back to reality, shaking his head in confusion. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s the matter? Ancom? This always happens when I have  _ free  _ sex. No boundaries, no liabilities. We didn’t even sign any paperwork.” A hand runs down his face; god, if this happened in Ancapistan he’d have his ass sued. At the very least he should’ve negotiated a safeword. 

Ancom crosses their arms, fingers digging hard into the fabric of their sweatshirt. “It’s nothing. It’s- fuck, Ancap, I have to go. Sorry.” They stand up on shaky, half-asleep legs, stumbling over towards no real direction in particular. Ancap stands up to follow, quickly grabbing their shoulder and pulling them to him. 

“You’re not going anywhere. I’d be a real piece of shit if I left you like this, especially after you provided such a service to me free of charge-” 

“God damn it! Why is everything with you about  _ transactions!”  _ Ancom breaks away from his grip, stumbling back to glare upwards at the taller anarchist. “All of you! You all  _ want  _ something out of me! Tankie wants me to be his mindless slave, Nazi wants to fucking  _ kill  _ me, and you want to make everything about your stupid fucking paper!” 

“Actually, we use decentralized banking now-” 

“Fuck!  _ None  _ of you would ever understand what I’m feeling. None of you are ever going to fucking get why I am the way I am.  _ I  _ don’t even know why I am the way I am!” Ancom is shaking now, something in their voice quavering with a whirlwind of different emotions - hate, fear, sorrow. With shaking hands they raise up an arm, and with their other hand yank down the sleeve. Ancap holds back a gasp as he looks at the long line of cuts and scars that mark their pale skin, some scabbed-over and healing - clearly recent - while others have faded into small pink lines criss-crossing down their wrist. “What kind of ideology does this? I’m not even a real fucking  _ person _ , Ancap. None of us are. Why do I  _ feel  _ this way? Why was I given this  _ body  _ that I hate?” 

“I...Ancom, I never…” Ancap doesn’t know what to say. Much as Ancom predicted, he had no idea how that felt - what the leftist was describing, at least. Not to this intensity, not the way that caused those big sad tears to well up in their eyes. 

Ancom pulls their sleeve back down, crossing their arms to hug themself tight. “Ancap...I don’t even know why I exist. I don’t know who or what I am, what  _ we  _ are. I’ve barely felt coherent lately, just...as an ideology. Commie is so... _ strong  _ compared to me, and at least you and Nazi know what you want. You know why you exist. I...I’m just a joke. I’m just a tranny faggot who doesn’t even know why they’re here.” 

Ancap shakes their head. “Ancom, you can’t just say that about yourself. Plenty of people like you. The other anarchists like you, don’t they?” 

Ancom shakes their head. They’re quiet for a bit, leaving Ancap standing there in the chill of the night. The silhouettes of their bodies stand out in stark contrast in the light of the moon above them - Ancap’s long lanky figure, his hat and suit contrasting from Ancom’s small stature and up-turned hood. 

“...Have you ever thought about dying, Ancap?” Ancom mumbles. 

“Like...being killed? Of course. I know that Nazi and Commie ha-” 

“Not what I meant. That’s...that’s different. When one ideology kills another, it’s just...a representation, really. When the beliefs and hatred of a group is so strong that their ideology can become powerful enough to murder another one. Erase it from existence. But…” Ancom’s hand comes up to sweep their hood off their head. Their eyes are wide, scared. “What do you think would happen if I killed myself?” 

Ancap’s mouth gapes open for a bit. Lost. “I...I’ve never thought about it.” 

“I don’t think the world would miss  _ Anarcho-Communism _ ,” they mutter, something bitter in their voice. 

Ancap thinks for a moment. “...I think you need some water, Ancom.” That’s the best they can do - the best they can think of. He’s still not 100% sober, and he knows Ancom definitely isn’t either - which is probably why they’re letting this spill out of them right now, to  _ him  _ of all people. He looks down expectantly at the other anarchist, half-expecting them to tell him to fuck off and try making it back home by themself, which they’ve managed to do in a worse state of sobriety before. 

But instead, Ancom takes in a deep breath and releases it as a long, drawn-out sigh. “Sure.” 

It takes a bit of walking. They’d gotten themselves into some nowhere area of the park in their drug-addled romping, but after finding the main trail and getting back to the visitor’s center Ancap finally found a functioning water fountain that Ancom could drink from. 

Ancom obviously drinks a bit too fast, or maybe the noxious concoction of drugs in their system is finally catching up with them, because soon they’re hunched-over the railing of the observatory deck and puking their guts out. 

Ancap stands behind them, gently running a hand up and down the leftist’s back like he’s seen in the movies. It felt like the right thing to do, anyway, even if Ancom’s sounds were pretty fucking gross. 

“Yeah, just get all that crap out of your system,” he mutters, waiting until Ancom’s done retching to pull them back to get another sip of water. “You’ll probably be better off anyway.” 

Soon they find a seat along one of the park benches around the front of the visitor’s center, the wood unmaintained and molding at the edges but otherwise a good enough of a place to talk as any. 

“So...gender dysphoria,” Ancap says, dumbly, before adding, “That’s what this is?” 

“Sort of,” Ancom mumbles, hunched over. “It’s part of it. I mean, a big part of it is me just wondering... _ why  _ I got this body, anyway. I look like a stupid kid. Everyone  _ treats _ me like a stupid kid. And…” they purse their lips, seeming to contemplate whether or not to continue talking before spitting it out. “I don’t know why I  _ had  _ to be a guy. Why most of us are guys. It’s strange. I kind of hate it. This body just doesn’t feel right. And then it makes me start thinking about...why we exist in the first place, and what we’re supposed to do here on Earth, and me and Commie’s relationship...it’s just a lot. My brain doesn’t shut up. So I get high and forget about it until I come back, and then somehow when I start thinking about it again it hurts  _ even worse _ than I thought it could. Which leads to...y’know.” They gesture at their clothed wrist, and Ancap nods in understanding. 

“Well, in Ancapistan they’re plenty of plastic surgeons that could make you look any way you could dream of. For the right price, that is - but you know, I could get you a very handsome loan as someone with quite a bit of power over there.” Ancap shoots a well-intentioned smile at Ancom, only to have it fall into a confused line as Ancom rolls their eyes at his words. 

“I don’t want to go under the knife. I  _ know  _ I’ll never feel right. Unless you want to take my whole brain out- fuck you, that’s a figure of speech.” 

“Maybe Transhumanist could get you some kind of robot body that feels right.”

Ancom shrugs. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel like it’s worth trying out. Too many hoops to jump through...and then there’s what Commie would say. God, I really hate him sometimes, but...I can’t let go of him. We’ve always been so close. Even when things have been really terrible between us, I always keep coming back to him.” 

Ancap sighs, letting a hand rest on the armrest between them. “Statists wouldn’t have their power if they weren’t charismatic. And I do admit Commie has a way of getting people on his side. You don’t  _ need _ him though, Ancom. You’re a perfectly coherent ideology on your own. You’re  _ anarchist  _ communism like how I’m  _ anarchist  _ capitalism. We have as much in common with each other as you do with him, even if you don’t like to admit it.” He smirks, flashing perfect white teeth. They must have cost a fortune. “Now, if you could give up your petty hang-ups about the free market, we could really get somewhere. Think about it - Ancapistan’s very own leftist representative. You could get quite the lavish accommodations there, not to mention a paycheck of your very own.” It’s clear Ancap’s joking - or at least, mostly joking, and his words bring a small smile to Ancom’s face that they can’t help. 

“Get fucked, pig,” Ancom laughs, and suddenly they find their fingers curling around Ancap’s. His hands are warm, smaller than Commie’s. Nails perfectly manicured, wrist adorned with a shiny watch that glitters under the flickering lamplight coming from the building behind them. 

“I think you already did the job for me.” 

Ancom gawks, their cheeks heating up again, before Ancap seizes the opportunity to reach over and pull them into another kiss - softer this time, slower. 

When they part, Ancap has what seems to be one of the first genuine smiles Ancom has ever seen from him across his face. It wasn’t the plastic, stiff smile of the salesman, the loan-shark, the populist. No, it was something different, something...beautiful. Ancom knows immediately that they want to see that smile again and again. 

“I don’t really understand everything about you, Ancom,” Ancap says, tightening his grip on the leftist’s hand. “But I do know that we both can’t fucking  _ stand  _ the statists, and hey, that’s been enough for insurrection in the past, hasn’t it?” 

“I could overthrow the state with you,” Ancom mumbles, “one anarchist to another.” 

Their lips meet, and it feels like the revolution. 


End file.
